


Death Date

by orphan_account



Category: Black Lagoon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Only a number of the dead themselves could recall Two Hands’ death date
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Death Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerbummer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerbummer/gifts).



> So I’m practicing my writing and wanted to gift this, even if it’s not good I wanted to do something so I grant you this one-shot of Revy. Sorry it’s so short.

The day when the living die is called the death date. For most of the living it’s just a mystery as they scramble to set their tombstone or bury themselves in the rotting dirt that crumbles under their soles. Only a number of the dead themselves could recall Two Hands’ death date. Or so they thought, as it laid limp and misshapen with their self proclaimed prophesies of her fucking life. 

All of them assumed she died when she got the shit kicked out of her by a dirty cop or the moment her father started lifting a bottle to his mouth with his throat bobbing, replicating Rebecca’s own as she gasped for air. Fantasies darken when she entertains herself in one of where she didn’t sit on that crummy curb as her hands felt pebbles digging into her palms and a whole sentence of the alphabet lined up for death row in her mind. 

A split second held between them when he turned the flashlight off and light sagged to the ground from the shadow of her body; the reflection from the innocent, broken streetlight had the band suffocating his finger degrading into bronze and they both glanced at it as he pushed it down further as he withheld a cheshire grin. One thing she remembers from the ring is in that moment it was shitty bronze and not a fleck of gold seen in sight. 

Teetering on the curb with one foot dipping in pursue after the other as the asphalt caught her fall on the way home. The butterflies caused the barrel of the gun to sway between her own skull and his as they bent awkwardly along her body before beginning once again at her fingertips as her finger was sluggishly held back. Her death was when he asked for another fucking beer and he was gifted by God with the ringing of feathers free-falling on glass, magazines and a poverty filled floor of lead. 

The cloudless sky escorted with the sliver of a moon foretold that the bottle she conquered as her own was fucking gold. That gold echoed the bullets on the floor as it dove to the dingy floor in uneven chunks. Surrounding it was liquid that stumbled toward her as it mingled with the cowardice of a soul and a rawness of another. 

So amber and crimson sprinted with sentences in her mind as they blessedly went to her fingertips every time just writing fanciful torments of embroidered gold in her veins. Gazing down upon it tore away her veil of flesh as her eyes slackened further and the words in her mind were only surging in the cardinal sin she committed. 

To this day the fever and alphabet of life dominates her at gunpoint when she’s sleeping on a pillow made of feathers.


End file.
